


No Regrets, Just Love

by miss_begonia



Series: Vday Verse [2]
Category: Glee, Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it was a kiss. You didn’t kill my dog,” Chris snaps. “Get off the floor.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets, Just Love

“The thing about this movie that I don’t understand,” Darren says around a mouthful of popcorn, “is what Rachel McAdams likes about James Marsden. I get that he’s wearing a uniform and everything, but he’s such a dick.”  
  
“I think the operative words there are  _James Marsden_ ,” Chris says. “It’s not that deep.“  
  
“Ryan Gosling can fuck her against a wall,” Darren says. “I’m still confused.”  
  
“She doesn’t  _know_  that yet,” Chris says. “She has to, like, see the house he built her, and the birds that fly and are free and stuff. It’s beautiful and symbolic and you’re ruining it, dummy.”  
  
Darren’s licking butter off his fingers, which is really distracting. Chris has a long list of rules about how he’s not allowed to perv on his co-stars, even the ones he is allowed to ogle onscreen, but he’s also twenty and a gay boy without an active sex life. Plus Darren is talking about fucking people against walls. This whole evening was clearly a terrible idea.  
  
“I will shut up and allow the magic of this movie to envelop me,” Darren says, fanning out his hands, jazz-style, and leaning farther back into the couch. His shirt rides up, and Chris is reminded of the  _Out_  magazine that currently resides on his bedside table. He read the article too, okay? He always reads the articles in  _Out_ , even when  ~~wet Darren abs~~  attractive people are involved.  
  
Darren pushes a strand of his hair out of his eyes. Chris tries to look away, but it’s hard to do that with Darren sometimes. He’s so kinetic, his motions building on emotions, that when he’s motionless it feels special, like it should be observed and studied.  
  
“What you said before,” Darren says suddenly.  
  
Chris blinks. “Hmm?”  
  
Darren turns toward him and meets his eyes. Chris’s community theater director told him once that self-assurance translates to eye contact, that people who believe what they’re saying will say it without looking away.  
  
Darren always looks him in the eye.  
  
“When we were shooting that scene,” Darren says. “You said that people never called me a—”  
  
“Oh, just forget it,” Chris says, stomach dipping. “It wasn’t, like, important—”  
  
“It was important,” Darren says. “Don’t say that. It was really important.”  
  
Chris is silent. He plays with the fringe on the blanket in his lap, rubbing it between his fingers.  
  
“I’m not...I would never say I know how you feel,” Darren says, “because I don’t. You’re totally right. High school was pretty all right for me. Yeah, I got a little shit for doing musical theater, but it wasn’t bad. I was lucky. I am lucky.”  
  
Chris remembers this kid in his bio class who stuck a post-it note to the back of his shirt that said  _I will be your fag_. He didn’t figure it out until last period when he went to the bathroom and caught a glimpse in the mirror. He was so proud of himself that he didn’t cry, but that night, alone in his room, he ate a pint of Chubby Hubby and threw up in his sink. That was when the tears came. He’d thought:  _I won’t be anybody’s fag_ , and sang random quiet melodies until his voice broke.  
  
“Chris?” Darren whispers, and Chris had honest-to-God forgotten Darren was still there until he shifted on the couch and his leg pressed against Chris’s. “Did I lose you?”  
  
“No, I’m here,” Chris says, his voice thick.  _Thank God_.  
  
Darren hesitates, then lifts his hand and places it on Chris’s shoulder. “I wanted to say – that episode you did during the first season, when you did that Burt Bacharach song?”  
  
Chris nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.  
  
“I fucking hate Burt Bacharach, dude. I think he’s cheesy and annoying, and I sat there and listened to you sing it, and I was so, so jealous. You sang that song like someone who understood what it means to miss someone so much or want someone so much that you can’t breathe. You made that song mean something. And every time I’ve seen you sing anything it’s there, Chris. The wanting.”  
  
Chris feels his face heat. He didn’t know he gave off such an air of desperation. He should probably work on that.  
  
“No – no – damn it, I’m screwing this up.” Darren takes Chris’s hand, and Chris tenses all over. Darren’s hand is cool and his grip is tight, like he’s afraid Chris is going to try to run. Chris would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted.  
  
“You’re not screwing anything up,” Chris says. “Don’t even worry about it. You shouldn’t worry—“  
  
“No, no, I do worry,” Darren says. “I worry because I’m not you. Ryan’s nice to me and so he shoves me into the center of everything and doesn’t let you sing, and that’s kind of like giving me a head start or a handicap or something. But today we did that fight scene and all I could think was, ‘Nobody’s going to believe me now.’ Because you’re incredible, Chris, and next to you I don’t even register. Which is okay, trust me. But I’m always going to worry that I’m fucking it up.”  
  
Darren’s on a roll now, a tiny bit manic, and Chris feels like his throat is closing up. Darren is so close, and he’s saying all these  _things_ , and—  
  
“I know I sound like Oprah, but you are all of those amazing things because you fought,” Darren says. “I would never wish what you’ve been through on anyone, but if there’s one silver lining to all of that bullshit, it’s that you are who you are now.”  
  
Chris literally can’t breathe. He remembers what Ryan said after they watched Darren’s audition tapes.  _He’s so earnest_ , he’d said.  _He’s like you. He doesn’t know how to lie._  
  
“God, I don’t know when to shut up,” Darren says softly. “Someone should really teach me how to do that.”  
  
“No – no, it’s okay,” Chris says, his voice tight. “Gimme a second.”  
  
“I should have just watched the movie,” Darren says. “I didn’t want you to think – I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t hear you.”  
  
 _Goddammit, Darren_ , Chris thinks,  _why must you be so straight and so perfect?_  
  
“I’m not perfect,” Darren says, and wow, Chris really needs to stop saying this stuff out loud.  
  
“I’m an idiot,” Chris says. “I’m sorry—”  
  
“This is a bad idea,” Darren says, and that’s when he kisses Chris.  
  
*  
  
Chris remembers the first time he sang on stage. He was four, and it was at a school recital, a Christmas pageant (Clovis loved Christmas pageants, anything that involved Jesus and they were all set). Chris doesn’t even remember what he sang, only that he had a solo. When he opened his mouth he felt like the whole world stopped, froze in front of him, and all those people shifting in their seats and coughing and shushing other kids disappeared. There was nothing but his voice, his voice and that huge room and air.  
  
Chris learned to breathe through singing, learned language through lyrics, corrected his lisp through melody. Being on stage is still the only time Chris’s world stops. Those pauses get him through the day sometimes.  
  
The day he got the news about Glee was one of those pauses:  _No, no, Chris, we want to create a part for you. We want to tell your story._  He remembers the pause when, a year later, Ryan took him aside and said,  _We want Kurt to have a boyfriend_. Chris had thought,  _Kurt is going to get lucky before I do?_  
  
Here, now, is a freeze frame moment, Darren’s hand still holding his, his lips pressed to the corner of Chris’s mouth. It’s awkward and warm and for some reason Chris starts thinking about the blanket, like why is he huddled under a blanket in Los Angeles when it’s 70 degrees outside? How did this happen, and is it possible he accidentally jumped into some alternate timestream where guys like Darren want to make out with guys like him? Because that seems as reasonable an explanation as any for whatever is going on right now.  
  
“Shit,” Darren says, his breath hot against Chris’s lips, and Chris wants to lean forward, but – Darren said it himself. This is a bad idea.  
  
“I – what – now I’m confused,” Chris manages. “I am so confused right now.”  
  
Darren sits back, but he’s still holding Chris’s hand.  
  
“I have really poor impulse control,” Darren says. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“You are messing with my head,” Chris says. “I’m not trying to ruin this meeting of the lonely hearts club or whatever, but I honestly have no idea what is happening.”  
  
“I’m not trying to mess with your head,” Darren says. “I just – you looked so upset, and I wanted to make it better. I thought – shit, I’m a terrible person.”  
  
“You’re not a terrible person,” Chris says. “I just don’t need pity makeouts. Even on Valentine’s Day.”  
  
“I know you don’t,” Darren says. “If anything, these would be pity makeouts for me, because I’m so stupid. Seriously, Chris, I—“  
  
Darren looks so frantic and freaked out. He climbs off the couch and onto the carpet, and oh, shit, now he’s on his knees.  
  
“Please, Chris,” Darren says. “I am so sorry. I mean it, I—”  
  
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it was a kiss. You didn’t kill my dog,” Chris snaps. “Get off the floor.”  
  
Darren’s smile is still so cute it makes Chris want to stab something. He rises and bows, like a knight, because of all the things Darren is - singer/songwriter/actor/Disney fan - he’s also a nerd.  
  
“I love  _The Notebook_ , but since I’m an ingrate and I almost made you cry already tonight, I think we should change course,” Darren says.  
  
“Well, you know it’s not Valentine’s Day if someone’s not weeping,” Chris says. He smooths out a wrinkle in his jeans and wills his heartbeat to slow. “Suggestions?”  
  
“I know you own Karaoke Revolution, Colfer. Break that shit out.”  
  
*  
  
 _“If you want it to be good, girl, get yourself a – bad boy…”_  
  
Darren knows all the Backstreet Boys dance moves. Chris is so in love.  
  
“Wait, wait,” Darren says. “Damn it, Chris, get your ass up here. I can’t do this alone.”  
  
Chris is laughing so hard he messes up the first few moves pretty badly. It’s not like Chris is that coordinated on a normal basis, let alone after two glasses of wine.  
  
“ _If you want it to be jammin’, you gotta get somebody slammin’,_ ” Darren sings. “This song is beautiful. It’s poetry.”  
  
“I can’t do this,” Chris says, pressing his palms to his flushed cheeks.  
  
“I accept no ‘can’ts,’” Darren says.  
  
He arranges Chris’s arms into proper pop and lock position, then nods like he’s done the world a favor.  
  
“Screw you,” Chris says, still a little hysterical. “I am not your puppet.”  
  
“I like that,” Darren says. “Assert yourself, honey. Snap snap.”  
  
“You are still the worst straight boy ever,” Chris says, then says in his best nosy interviewer voice, “Is that a product of your Catholic school education, or musical theater, or San Francisco, city of fruits and nuts?”  
  
“You watch yourself,” Darren says, pointing a finger at him accusingly. “We just won the World Series.”  
  
“How butch,” Chris says.  
  
“Damn right it’s butch. Drinking in the streets. Drinking  _beer_. Not an appletini in sight.”  
  
“Do you know what we have in Clovis?” Chris says, reaching for his half-empty wine glass. “Cows. Fields. Beef jerky. Wal-mart. Sometimes the rodeo.”  
  
“Is that what it says on the brochures?” Darren says. “Because those are some solid selling points.”  
  
“I know, right?” Chris says. “Like, what do you have in San Francisco?  _Culture_? Gross.”  
  
“It’s quite dull there, actually,” Darren says in the WASPy prep school boy voice he uses sometimes as Blaine. “All that fine dining and clubbing and art? So tiresome.”  
  
“That’s what I hear.”  
  
Darren pours himself another glass of wine, then gestures with the bottle to Chris, who hands over his glass. Darren’s starting to look a little unsteady. He fills Chris’s glass to the brim and winks.  
  
“You’re a corrupting influence,” Chris says. “This is  _illegal_.”  
  
“That’s what we do in San Francisco, you know,” Darren says, his eyes bright. “Corrupt people.”  
  
The air in Chris’s apartment is starting to feel a little heavy. The karaoke game has switched over to the menu, and an annoying tune is playing over and over.  
  
Chris turns to the TV and lifts the controller from where it’s wedged between the couch cushions. “You should pick something new.”  
  
Darren sets down his glass and takes the controller from Chris, flicking through the menu. “Oooh – oooh, this.”  
  
“Are you serious?” Chris says, a laugh escaping his lips. “Apparently you’re stuck in the mid-90s. I was like four years old when this song came out.”  
  
“Don’t remind me,” Darren says. “You’re such a young’n.”  
  
“Oh, and you’re ancient? You graduated college. You’re not collecting a pension, old man.”  
  
“I want Blaine to sing this to Kurt,” Darren says. “I bet I could convince Ryan. You know he loves 90s R&B.”  
  
“Why not ‘Bump and Grind,’ then,” Chris says, trying to keep the tone light, even though he feels like his face is on fire. It always gets to Chris that Darren thinks about things like this. Darren soundtracks everything in his life, always knows what should be playing when, and now he does it for Kurt and Blaine, like they’re real people, like it’s only logical they should be together and have their own properly orchestrated romantic moments.  
  
“Subtlety is key,” Darren says.  
  
 _I don’t want to lose your love  
I don’t want to say bye-bye  
True love is so hard to find  
And it’s right between your lips and mine…_  
  
Darren knows all the lyrics without the prompter, which makes no sense, because he was maybe seven when this song came out, but Darren seems to know the lyrics to everything. He is his own karaoke revolution.  
  
Darren is standing right in front of him and pointing at him, and his eyes are dark. Maybe it’s the wine or the general craziness of this day, but it feels like Darren is singing to him: not Kurt, not some random girl. Chris doesn’t want to indulge his vivid fantasy life, because he’s been here before, and it sucks. Darren is a charmer and a flirt who gives everyone gifts on Valentine’s Day.  _I can’t believe I made it all up in my head_ , he hears Kurt say, and swallows.  
  
Then the song is suddenly over, and Chris is standing in front of Darren in his Lady Gaga t-shirt and jeans, and Darren is breathing hard and a little sweaty and ridiculously hot.  
  
“Hi,” Chris says.  
  
“Hi,” Darren says. “We meet again.”  
  
“Hi,” Chris says stupidly.  
  
“I lied before,” Darren says.  
  
“About the appletinis?” Chris says. “It’s okay, I know San Francisco ceases to exist when there are no appletinis.”  
  
“Be serious for a second,” Darren pleads. “I lied before, when I said I kissed you to make you feel better.”  
  
Chris’s heart does a Shirley Temple tap dance.  
  
“I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you,” Darren says. “I want to kiss you now.”  
  
Chris is breathless and hot. Darren reaches out and presses his hand to Chris’s cheek, just there, five fingers and an imprint.  
  
This is such a bad idea. Darren is his bad idea friend, apparently, which is weird because Chris always thought Lea was his bad idea friend. But Darren is giving Lea a run for her money tonight. Darren is the official king of bad ideas.  
  
“I can’t believe you know all the lyrics to that song,” Chris says.  
  
“I have a lot of secret talents,” Darren says. His thumb trails along Chris’s jawline, stopping at the edge of Chris’s mouth. “Please forget I said that. I’m stupid. You’re making me stupid.”  
  
Darren’s thumb slips over the curve of Chris’s bottom lip, and without thinking, Chris licks it.  
  
“Fuck,” Darren states, and Chris’s pulse flutters.  
  
He lets Darren pull him in. Darren smells like such a boy, sour from sweat, spicy from some kind of cologne. He is warm and solid, and he tastes like pizza and popcorn and red wine, like their whole lonely hearts club evening all at once.  
  
Darren kisses like he sings: earnestly and all in. When he opens his mouth against Chris’s, Chris inhales. Darren grasps Chris’s jaw, light but steering the kiss. Chris is glad someone has control of this situation, because he feels like he’s in a free fall.  
  
Darren’s hands find their way into the creases of Chris’s hip bones, settling there and gently pulling him closer. Chris goes without resistance, never breaking the kiss, and notices the way Darren’s breath hitches when Chris nips at his bottom lip.  
  
“I thought you were straight,” Chris mumbles against his lips.  
  
“Not so perfect,” Darren says, hands tightening at Chris’s hips. “Not entirely straight.”  
  
Chris’s chest is tight and his world is spinning. He thinks of Darren’s interviews about Blaine – _a kiss would be the best thing ever; Kurt’s such a good dude, he should have a man; go big or go home._  
  
Sometimes when he turns to find Darren in a crowd he catches Darren looking for him.  
  
 _I am not this dumb_ , Chris thinks.  _Am I this dumb?_  
  
“Don’t think so much,” Darren says.  
  
“I can’t just stop thinking,” Chris says.  
  
Darren’s mouth tips into a smirk that gives Chris the worst ideas. “I bet you can.”  
  
Chris can safely say he didn’t anticipate Darren’s hand slipping down to cup him through his jeans. He is not proud of the way he squeaks.  
  
“I’m not trying to pressure you,” Darren says.  
  
“Pressure is okay,” Chris says, his eyelids fluttering. “More pressure would be fine...”  
  
Darren kisses him again, and Chris loses track of time for awhile between the taste of his lips and his tongue and his hands on Chris’s back and his ass, molding their bodies together. He’s barely aware of the sound of the video game menu in the background and the whir of the fridge in the kitchen, but mostly he hears the sounds of Darren’s breathing and his, mingled, rhythmic, punctuated by gasps.  
  
His hands tangle in Darren’s hair and pull him closer, closer, and Darren steers them into a wall, nearly tripping them both in his haste. Darren’s belt buckle digs into Chris’s stomach and Darren apologizes, his voice rough. Chris thinks,  _shit, did I--_  and gets distracted when Darren angles his hips and there is suddenly pressure in exactly the right places.  
  
“Have you--” Chris starts to say, then wants to swallow the words as Darren backs off, cocking his head to one side.  
  
“I’ve kissed guys before,” Darren says. “Is that what you were going to ask?”  
  
Chris nods, and all of a sudden, to his horror, he feels like he’s going to cry. Apparently being with Darren today means being on the constant edge of tears. His eyes stray to the Wolverine clock mounted on his wall. 11:15 pm on a Monday night, and it’s still goddamn Valentine’s Day.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Darren says. “You haven’t.”  
  
A few kisses here and there total Chris’s romantic experience. Swift and gone. The virginal aspects of Kurt were never ones he’s had trouble portraying. Chris doesn’t feel unloved or alone most of the time, but in the frantic whirl of the last couple of years, he hasn’t had much time or space for a relationship. All of these are excuses, perhaps, but the fact remains: Chris makes love to his work. Maybe that’s why all Darren sees when Chris sings is wanting.  
  
“Chris,” Darren says, and Chris wants to yank the pity out of Darren’s voice, stomp on it and kick it to the curb like all those assholes from high school who email him now:  _Hey Chris, remember me?_  
  
“You didn’t have to stop,” Chris whispers.  
  
Darren seems to be at an impasse. His shoulders are tight, his square frame compact in every way it was relaxed and open and sprawled into Chris’s space before.  
  
“Give me a minute,” Darren says.  
  
“Don’t think so much,” Chris hisses, and when he yanks Darren forward they collide with the kind of force Chris has previously associated with lockers, and doors, and being pushed away.  
  
He is so tired of that being his reference point.  
  
Darren’s chin is rough with stubble and his fingers are bumpy with guitar calluses. Chris can feel the moment where he lets go, his weight pressing Chris into the wall, his kisses anchoring and steady. Chris closes his eyes and feels Darren’s palm on his stomach, opens them when Darren moans. He touches a finger to the curve of Darren’s cheekbone and watches his mouth fall open.  _Courage_ , he thinks.  _Courage._  
  
He doesn’t know how long it takes, only that it builds like music, starting in his toes and scaling his body in intervals and chords. He doesn’t care that he thinks like this, a giant music dork, because he knows Darren does too.  
  
One night when the shoot went long they were playing drowsy Scrabble and Chris still beat Darren fourteen times in a row.  
  
Darren finally threw up his hands and said,  _Dude, you had way too much time on your hands in Clovis_  and Chris replied,  _Why do you think I learned to sing?_  
  
Darren arched an eyebrow and grinned.  _Like you even had to learn._  
  
Darren shudders against him, now, and oh God, he makes the same orgasm faces as he does when he’s singing. Chris is never going to be able to un-see that. But he doesn’t have long to dwell on it because Darren opens his eyes and licks his lips and then licks Chris’s and everything in Chris’s vision goes hazy, beautiful white.  
  
*  
  
“Okay okay okay,” Darren says, his voice soft and sleepy. “I get it, I get it.”  
  
“Get what, Rainman?” Chris says. His brain is moving slowly, everything taking longer to process.  
  
“ _The Notebook_  is about living without regrets,” Darren says.  
  
Darren’s pressed along Chris’s side, his head pillowed on Chris’s shoulder. His hair tickles Chris’s chin, and he swallows a giggle.  
  
“If you’re a bird, I’m a bird,” Chris murmurs.  
  
Chris thinks Darren has nodded off, but then he says, “Dude, I distrust birds. If we’re anything, we should be, like, pandas. Super sexy pandas.”  
  
Chris lets his hand settle on top of Darren’s messy hair, petting softly.  
  
“I’m okay with that,” he says.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] No Regrets, Just Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/591464) by [oohshinyfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oohshinyfangirl/pseuds/oohshinyfangirl)




End file.
